As Time Passes
by Allycat33
Summary: He knew he should go to see a doctor, or even return to seeing his psychiatrist. He just . . . didn't want to. Because this life – a life without Him – wasn't living. It was just . . . existing. Preslash (sort of). Post-Reichenbach Fall
1. Chapter 1

_Written with the prompt, 2 a.m. _

_Disclaimer: Obviously not mine. _

* * *

Since the fall, his nightmares had changed. There was still blood. There'd always been blood. On his hands. On the ground. Staining clothes. But where once there'd been the screams of his comrades, there was now only his. The soldiers running about, chaotic, panicked, had been replaced by civilians, all running towards the side of a building. The explosions were gone, now only a deep voice telling him that this was His note to take their place. And where he'd seen countless bodies flying through the air, he now only saw one. Falling.

Each night, this was what he saw when he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

John started awake as he saw His body hit the ground for what must have been the thousandth time. He kept still for a few moments, staring up at the ceiling, drenched in a cold sweat. If he stayed this way for a while, he could just pretend that it had all been a horrible dream. That He was downstairs, sleeping, or lying on the couch lost in thought, or rustling around the kitchen working on some horrific experiment that was taking up space in the fridge.

John sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. 2 a.m. Too early to get up.

But he was too frightened to go back to sleep.

Before the fall, He had always somehow known when John was having a nightmare. John would wake up in the middle of the night, terrified, to a violin playing a soothing melody. The playing would continue until John had calmed down enough to return to slumber, and then would stop. Somehow, He always knew when that was, as well.

Now, when he had The Nightmare, he awoke to the sound of his own gasps, and nothing but silence from below.

John sat up with a groan, turning to hang his legs off the side of the bed. He stayed that way for several minutes, staring at the cane in the corner of the room until finally pushing himself up and limping past it.

The psychosomatic limp had returned with a vengeance, which hadn't really surprised him, as had the tremor in his hand. His shoulder ached continuously, but it had never really stopped. He'd just always been too distracted to notice it before, when Sher- . . . _He'd_ been alive. But it was more than all that.

His body was decaying. He could feel it. His legs were shaky, his arms weak. His back hurt all the time, and he felt like he had a constant crick in his neck. He had no energy. His mind was sluggish; he couldn't think clearly.

He knew he should go to see a doctor, or even return to seeing his psychiatrist. He just . . . didn't want to. Because this life – a life without Him – wasn't living. It was just . . . existing.

He made his way slowly down the stairs, grasping onto the railing to keep his bad leg from buckling and sending him tumbling down the stairs. He trudged into the kitchen, stopping to take in its cleanliness before going to put the kettle on.

He'd always hated the experiments. Heads in the fridge, fingers in the produce drawer. Eyeballs in the microwave. Acidic and basic chemicals cluttering up the counter, sometimes not even covered. Various questionable substances strewn about the table. He'd thrown fits over the state of that kitchen. He'd wanted it to look the way it should and function in its proper role as a location for food storage and preparation. Now, he'd give anything to be able to nag and snap at Sherl- . . . _Him _. . . for the state of the room.

A whistle filled the air and John monotonously took it off the heat and prepared two cups of tea. He made to carry them into the living room and froze in the doorway, staring at the cups in his hand. He took a long, shuddering breath before turning to dump one of the cups in the sink. Months later, and he still couldn't get out of the habit of making a cuppa for Him.

He settled into his armchair with a sigh and switched the telly on. He flipped through the channels mindlessly, sipping his tea. Nothing on. Not a surprise. He'd become more than accustomed to the middle-of-the-night programming. He yawned and set his now empty mug on the coffee table, settling back into the armchair. His eyes drifted shut as he dozed off to the soft sound of voices emanating from the TV.

* * *

John rolled over onto his side as the girl in his bed – he honestly couldn't remember her name – snuggled up to his back, smiling in her sleep. He pushed her back slightly, scooting as far as he could to the edge of the bed without falling off. He stared at the wall blankly, wondering just what in the hell he was doing.

It had been a year and a half. A year and a half since John had separated the years of his life into Before Sherlock and After Sherlock. A year since he had stopped expecting him to come running up the stairs to drag John along on one of his cases. Nine months since he could say his name again. Six since he'd accepted that Sherlock was actually dead. Five months since he'd gone numb.

And one month since he'd stopped trying to live.

Everyone was worried about him, he knew. Mrs. Hudson had stopped accepting rent and grocery money. Molly kept coming over with food. Lestrade took him out every few weeks. Harry kept trying to set him up on dates (hence the girl currently cuddling up to him) and visited more in 3 months than she had in the 2 years he'd lived with Sherlock. But he just didn't care anymore.

John sat up and grabbed his dressing gown, wrapping himself up in it. He heaved himself to his feet with a groan and hobbled out of the room and down the stairs, leaving the girl without a glance. He contemplated making himself a cuppa, but something kept his feet walking past the kitchen, through the living room, and down the hall he'd avoided for a year and a half.

He found himself standing in front of the strong oak door. His hand reached out tentatively, pausing before he touched the handle. He diverted its progress, instead, reaching up to place it on the smooth wood. It was cold. He rubbed his thumb across it softly, lowering his head. Then, steeling himself, he dropped his hand to the handle and twisted, pushing the door open.

The room was just as Sherlock had left it. John had gone in once, to check for any experiments that would need to be saved or discarded, since Sherlock had died. Since then, he'd avoided the room, pretending it didn't exist.

Now though, he took a few halting steps into it, his eyes sweeping around it. There was a thick layer of dust coating every surface. In the back of his mind, he heard a faint echo from another lifetime: _dust is eloquent_. John bit the inside of his cheek, walking over to the bed. His hand brushed over the bedspread and he dropped to his knees, clenching his hand into a fist around the blanket.

Huge, wracking sobs filled the empty room, piercing the air that hadn't been disturbed in so long. He hauled himself onto the bed, curling into a small ball. He pulled the pillow down to hug it and Sherlock's distinctive scent filled his nose, memories being pulled up from the pit he'd thrown them into.

It had taken a long time for John to realize what Sherlock had actually meant to him – and even longer for him to admit it to himself. And it just made everything so much worse. He loved Sherlock. _God_, did he love him. He was John's perfect match, in every conceivable way. He'd found his soul mate.

Too late.

He buried his nose in the pillow and cried himself to sleep.

* * *

A harsh ring echoed throughout the apartment and John lurched out of bed, his heart racing. A glance at the clock told him it was well after 2 in the morning. He groaned, his head falling back onto the pillows that still smelled faintly like Sherlock. Maybe if he ignored it, they would go away.

Five minutes later, whoever it was was leaning heavily on the doorbell. John whipped the covers off and grabbed his cane, propelling himself down the hall, down the stairs outside the flat to the front door. He ripped it open to reveal Harry, looking disheveled and a combination between heartbroken and pissed.

"Took long enough," she snapped, pushing past him and vaulting up the stairs.

John followed with a sigh. When he entered the living room he found that Harry had wasted no time in making herself comfortable. She was sprawled out across the couch, flicking through a book John had left on the coffee table.

She looked up when he came in the room. "How 'bout a cuppa, then?" she asked pointedly.

John chewed the side of his cheek, then said, "Harry, it's the middle of the night. What are you doing here?"

"No cuppa, then?" John just stared at her. She sighed, propping herself up with her elbows. "Clara kicked me out."

"Why?" he asked emotionlessly, not in the mood to be sympathetic.

Harry rolled her eyes. "Because she's a bloody bitch, that's why."

John rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand, then walked to his armchair and settled into it. "Well, that's a bit unfair, isn't it? Clara's not going to just toss you out for no reason." His eyes flicked over her. "Did you start drinking again?"

She pursed her lips. "I just had a few beers."

"Harry!" She glared at him and John sighed, knowing from the past that lecturing her wasn't going to help matters. "Fine. You can stay here for a few days if you need to. I'll get your bed made."

Five minutes later John was herding Harry up the stairs as she threw him questioning glances. "Isn't this your room? I'm fine on the couch, John."

The emptiness of the room spoke loudly enough for him. She dropped her overnight bag on the floor and turned back to him, a pitying look on her face. "How long –"

John pulled back the covers on the bed and pointedly said, "Goodnight, Harry."

Her mouth closed, thinning. Stiffly she nodded and crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. "Goodnight, John."

}{

The next morning, Harry announced her presence downstairs with a disturbing declaration.

"I'm moving in."

John jumped, nearly dropping his tea. He twisted around in his armchair to gape at her. She was standing in front of the stairs, her arms crossed over her chest, and her chin sticking out stubbornly.

"_What_?"

"I'm moving in. Here. With you."

"Ah, _no_." John stood stiffly, walking over to her with as much of his old military stance as he could manage with a cane. "You need to go work things out with Clara."

"It's over with Clara. I'm sick of her griping on me all the time for wanting a beer every now and then. I'm done. Moving on."

"Every now and then? Harry, you. . . ." John snapped his mouth shut. She didn't listen to reason, his sister. Never had. "You'll get just as much griping from me. More."

"Good." Without warning, she pulled him into a hug. "Griping is how you show that you care. It's been too long, John. Two years. You need to start caring again."

He wasn't sure what to say to that, so he settled for awkwardly placing his hands on her back in a hesitant hug.

* * *

"I'm home," John called as he softly shut the door behind him. He stretched, leaning against the door. It had only been a few weeks since he'd started work again, but Harry had been right: it felt good to get out of the flat.

John made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. "Harry?" he called. He heard a distant thud at that from the depths of the flat. The kettle slipped out of his hands, hitting the floor with a loud clang. He hobbled out of the kitchen and down the hall as fast as he could, whipping open the door to Sherlock's – now his – room. "What the hell are you _doing_?"

She stared up at him, her eyes wide, from where she was crouched on the floor, trying to pick up a pile of books that she'd knocked over. "Get out of the way," he said, crouching down to pick the books up and cradling them to his chest. Since he'd moved into Sherlock's room, he'd only disturbed the bed. Everything else – the desk, the bookshelf, the dresser – was just as Sherlock had left it before he'd died. Until now.

"What are you doing in here, Harry?" He carefully placed the books back on the desk, trying to align them with the dust pattern left on the wood. _Dust is eloquent_.

She looked nervous. She was wringing her hands and chewing on her bottom lip. "I was just . . . trying to help."

"With _what_? What could you possibly be trying to help me with _in here_?"

She jumped at the tone in his voice. Was it possible she was actually _frightened_? "With . . . well. . . . Mrs. Hudson said she'd never seen them in the washing, so. . . ." She glanced at the bed.

John stared at it, his heart sinking. She. . . . She couldn't have. She _wouldn't_. "Get out."

"John, I –"

"Get _out_."

She took in a deep breath, standing a little straighter as she did so. "I'm trying to _help_ you, John."

"And _this_ is how you do it?" he snapped, gesturing to the bed. "Getting rid of the _one thing_ –"

"The one thing?!" Harry spread her arms out, sweeping them around the room pointedly. "This entire _room_ is a _shrine_, John! Your clothes are in a dresser in the _living room_ because you don't want to disturb Sherlock bloody Holmes' dresser." John looked down at the floor, biting his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. "You're trying to keep him alive through his stuff, but guess what, John." He looked up. "He's _dead_. He's _dead_, John. Do you not get that? Do you still think he's going to come sweeping in here like the great big pompous git that he was?" John looked away again, staring out the window blankly. "Well, he's not. Because he's _dead_. How many times do I have to say it until you get it?"

Silence. John swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. Still staring out the window, he said, "I know he's dead, Harry."

"Then what is it? It's been two and a half _years_. Longer than you even knew him. You weren't even like this when Mum and Dad died."

"It's different." John closed his eyes, and all he saw was that moment, playing behind his eyes continuously, an endless loop. "He was . . . my life. Everything. And I didn't even realize it. That I . . . was. . . ."

"In love with him," Harry finished. He opened his eyes in surprise. "I know. We _all_ know. He was the love of your life. Your soul mate. And now he's gone." Her voice softened slightly. "It's hard. So hard. Trust me, John, I know –"

"No, you don't!" John shouted. "You have _no idea_ what this feels like; what I'm going through. And don't say that you do. Clara is _alive_, Harry. She lives right across town. So don't you bloody tell me that you know how it feels to not be with your soul mate. And until she calls you from the top of a building and tells you that she's going to jump, you will _never_ know what this feels like."

He paused to swallow the lump down once more, and when he started talking again, his voice was softer. "Did you know I don't have nightmares about Afghanistan anymore?" She gave a small shake of her head. "Not for two and a half years. Now I have nightmares about that day. Every time I close my eyes I see his body falling through the air. I hear his voice telling me that this is his note. Saying goodbye. And I try to think of what more I could have said to save him. And I feel so _fucking_ _guilty_ that I couldn't. Because he trusted me – with his _life_ – and I failed him."

His eyes were prickling with tears threatening to fall. "And what makes it so much worse is how much I missed out on. If I had only figured it out before. . . . We could have been so much more. And maybe I could have saved him then. But I was too stupid to see it. And now it's too late, and I have to live with this regret for the rest of my life.

"So don't make my mistake. If you really love Clara, _go fucking tell her_ before it's too late. Because, I'm telling you, if Sherlock walked through that door right now, I wouldn't hesitate to tell him, right after punching him in his smug face, and I would _never_ stop telling him."

He walked to the edge of the bed, clutching the pillow in his hand, his back to Harry. "Now get out."

"John –"

"I said, get. The _fuck_. Out."

Hesitation, then footsteps retreating from the room and the door shutting. John sank slowly down onto the bed, running his hands over the newly-washed blankets. He pushed his nose down into the pillow, the scent of laundry detergent overpowering him. He pressed the pillow against his face, a scream ripping out of his throat. Sherlock's smell was completely gone, and John had never felt more alone.

* * *

It was late when John finally opened the door to 221B after taking care of a patient's medical emergency. A quick glance at his watch showed the time as 1:58 a.m. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack near the door, groaning as he stared up at the daunting stairs. His legs and back were completely stiff, and he really didn't want to drag himself up, but he gritted his teeth and started.

At the top of the stairs, he paused, checking his watch again. 1:59. He hadn't even realized it. He was already two hours into the anniversary of Sherlock's death. He pursed his lips, his eyes prickling dangerously. It was going to be a difficult day.

He pushed the door open, not bothering to flick on the light, as he was going to just go collapse into his bed. But as he staggered across the room, a lamp switched on. John froze, turning back slowly. His mouth dropped, his eyes widening. It wasn't possible.

"Hello, John."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock unfolded himself from the couch, standing to his full 6 foot frame. He approached John slowly, cautiously, until he was right there, standing in front of him. John shook his head, unable to believe that this was real. That this man was solid, standing in front of him, after three years.

"I . . . can't. . . ." He faltered, searching for the right words. "We . . . buried you. I saw you, I touched you. _There was no pulse_."

"It wasn't real."

"It _felt_ real," John whispered. He reached out a shaking hand, but he couldn't bring himself to touch Sherlock. What if this just turned out to be a horrible nightmare, or hallucination? He wouldn't be able to stand it.

Sherlock held out his hand, palm up. "_This_ is real, John. _I'm_ real. I'm here."

He offered his wrist to John. John swallowed nervously and took it, placing his fingers on Sherlock's pulse point. The steady pulse beating under his fingers was all too tangible, as was the heat rising up from Sherlock's skin. John gripped his wrist tightly, pulling him closer to place his other hand on Sherlock's chest. He could feel Sherlock's heart beating, starting to race, under the palm of his hand, and he choked back a relieved sob.

"_Oh my God_," John whispered. "It's really you. You're alive."

He released Sherlock's wrist and stared at him. He felt his hand clench into a fist. Without warning, he pulled his arm back and smashed it into Sherlock's face.

Sherlock staggered back, seemingly utterly surprised by this reaction. He opened his mouth to say something, clutching his cheek, but John never found out what it was because within seconds, he'd pulled Sherlock into him, wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders, while Sherlock's went around his waist, his fingers splaying across John's back. John buried his nose in Sherlock's neck, breathing in that scent that he'd been craving since Harry had washed the it out of his sheets.

"God, I _missed _you," John mumbled into his shirt, and he felt Sherlock's grip around him tighten.

"I know. I'm sorry, John." He sounded legitimately apologetic.

They stood in silence for a long time, wrapped in each others arms. When John finally pulled away, he wasn't sure how long it had been, but he quite frankly didn't give a damn. John pulled him over to the couch and they sat down side by side, their waists twisted so they were facing each other.

"Why?" John asked.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "You don't want to know how I did it?"

"Honestly?" John thought about that for a bit. Certainly, he was curious as to how Sherlock had appeared to be, without a doubt, dead. But right now all he wanted to know was what had been so important it had been necessary for him to fake his death for three years. "I don't know if I can hear it right now. I mean, listen to it," he clarified as Sherlock's mouth opened to retort, a snarky look on his face. "I just want to know why."

Sherlock nodded and delved into his last conversation with Moriarty. How he had already worked out that Moriarty was planning on killing him; he just wasn't certain how. So he'd decided if that was the case, it needed to be on his territory, not Moriarty's. He explained that he'd gotten everything ready, asked Molly for help – which upon learning, John started; Molly had known? And had kept it a secret for so long? – and made sure everything was in place.

He explained Moriarty's threats on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John, and how he killed himself, just so Sherlock would never know the code to call off the snipers. Until then, Sherlock had been hoping – desperately – that he wouldn't have to go through with it, but at that point he knew he had no choice. He called John, said goodbye, and jumped.

At this point, Sherlock paused, as John was looking dazed again. "Are you alright?" he asked.

John leaned toward him, reaching out his hand again. He tentatively touched Sherlock's arm, grasping it more firmly as he shook his head. "I just . . . had to make sure," he explained, looking down and missing the look of guilt that passed over Sherlock's face.

John cleared his throat and withdrew his hand, looking back up. He nodded for Sherlock to continue.

He cleared his throat slightly, then went on as if he hadn't stopped. "Moriarty was taken care of, but there were others. His reach was enormous, and if I revealed myself before destroying his web, it would have all been for nothing. His people still had their orders, and they wouldn't have hesitated to kill you.

"I spent every waking moment tracking down anyone of significance. Anyone who had the capacity to step in as Moriarty's replacement, or who had been under orders to kill you had I not died instead. Anyone who was even aware of Moriarty's plan needed to be removed. I found all of them, and took care of all of them. I found the last in China a week ago, stayed hidden for a few days, for caution's sake, then came straight here. Moriarty's organization is all but destroyed."

"What . . . did you do to them? The ones you found?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Some I set up, and they were arrested. Some Mycroft wanted; I didn't press for details. And others. . . ." His lips thinned. "Others were too dangerous to allow them to live."

A shiver ran down John's spine at the dark look on Sherlock's face. "How many. . . ?"

"I lost count."

John nodded, a solemn mood falling on them. John wasn't quite sure what to say. What exactly was the proper way to react when the flatmate you were in love with suddenly showed up in your living room after three years of you thinking he was dead? Somehow, he didn't think there was any precedent to this.

Finally, Sherlock said, "You look tired."

John was surprised to find himself yawning. He checked his watch, raising his eyebrows. It was nearly four in the morning. "I haven't been sleeping well," he said, around another yawn.

"How long?" John didn't answer. "Oh. I see." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair agitatedly. "John, I'm sorry," he said again, sounding more sincere than John had ever heard him sound before. "I never meant for this to happen. I didn't think you would be so affected."

John snorted at that. "No, why would you? You were only my best friend. You're right, I should've been fine within the week."

"No, that's not what I –"

"Three _years_, Sherlock. You couldn't have told me? Contacted me at all? Even a bloody text would've done the trick. _Something_."

"I wanted to!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Of course I did. Every update Mycroft sent me. . . . You weren't getting better."

John gritted his teeth. Mycroft bloody Holmes. Of course he had been watching. John stood and walked a few paces from the couch. He crossed his arms and stood there, his back to Sherlock.

Sherlock continued, "But they were watching you. And if suddenly one day you were just fine, it would have raised eyebrows. I couldn't tell you, for your own safety. If I did, it would have been my fault. I would have killed you."

John pursed his lips. "You could have told me. I could have acted –"

"John, you're no actor. You show what you're feeling on your face, clear enough that any everyday idiot can see. Something like this? You wouldn't have been able to hide it. Not for this long, anyway."

He turned slowly, arms still crossed. "And Molly? _She_ seemed like someone who could hide her emotions? She turns into jelly every time you enter the room!"

"Molly was . . . a risk," Sherlock conceded. He tipped his head to the side. "But I rather think that I'm the exception, not the rule." At John's blank look, he continued, "Molly is an autopsy technician, and a surprisingly adept one. She is accustomed to distancing herself from the bodies she works on. In the case of my death, had she used such a method, it would have appeared that she were in shock, and eventually moved on."

"You think I don't know how to distance myself? I'm a _doctor_, Sherlock."

"Can you honestly tell me that you learned how to properly separate yourself from your patients?" John said nothing. "You empathize with them. You care about them. And you show it. You wouldn't be able to act as Molly could. Your reaction was keeping you alive."

John shifted uncomfortably, knowing that Sherlock was right. He was just so. . . . He couldn't even say what he was feeling now. Happy, certainly, that Sherlock was alive. Gleeful, in fact. But angry, as well, at being kept in the dark. And hurt that he couldn't be trusted with this secret. And just a tiny bit betrayed.

"I missed you," he said again, glumly. Sherlock just nodded this time. "I couldn't. . . ." He took a deep breath. "I didn't want to live. Not without you."

The guilty look flitted across Sherlock's face again, and this time John caught it. He sucked in a breath and plopped back down on the sofa, his leg bent up under him and his body fully turned to Sherlock. His hand flitted out and he hesitantly brushed his fingertips against Sherlock's jaw.

"I missed you," he repeated. _I love you_, echoed in his mind. He tried to say it, but choked on the words. His thumb glided over Sherlock's angular cheekbone. His fingers came to rest at the nape of his neck, curling slightly in his hair.

Sherlock looked completely hyper-aware, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. His shoulders were tense, his hands gripping the material of the couch tightly. "John, I –"

"I know, Sherlock," he said, stifling a yawn. "_Not really your area_." He chuckled slightly. "Don't worry, it's not mine, either," though this was only partially a lie. He'd always considered himself to be straight, but with Sherlock, that didn't seem to matter. He wasn't attracted to the fact that Sherlock was a man. He was just attracted to _Sherlock_.

His hand dropped, a sudden wave of exhaustion crashing over him, and he yawned again. "I'm just . . . trying to memorize it. You. Everything." His eyelids began to droop.

Sherlock's hand on his shoulder was unnerving. It seemed to burn right through his jumper, spreading tingles down his arm. "You should go up to bed," Sherlock said gently.

John grinned wearily. "If you think I'm letting you out of my sight, you're mad." He kicked off his shoes and stretched, then leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "No, I'm staying right here, and so are you."

His eyes were shut, so he missed Sherlock's smile. "Whatever you say, John."

"Mm," he agreed.

Sherlock shifted slightly, pulling his legs up and stuffing a pillow between his side and the couch. John shifted with him, snuggling closely. There was a content look on his face that Sherlock was certain had been missing for three years.

After what Sherlock deemed to be a suitable length of time for John to have fallen asleep, he allowed his arm to curl around John's back, his hand lying on John's forearm. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back, and let out the long sigh of one perfectly at ease.

"I missed you, too, John," he said, his voice low. "More than you could possibly know."

His words broke through the state of near-sleep that John was in, and he missed the small smile that crept onto John's face.


End file.
